Hooghly cruise: NY Times
Dec 20th, 2008, 12:20 PM
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Dec 20th, 2008, 12:28 PM
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How fantastic! I was on the boat with this dreadful, dreadful woman.
If you care to cross-reference, this woman is the tie-die lady who so loathed me in my much more interesting report: Dogster: Tumbling down the Hoogli.
I note she doesn't mention the lone Australian... in her mind I wasn't there. God, she was AWFUL. How funny to meet her again. Thanks ek.
If you care to cross-reference, this woman is the tie-die lady who so loathed me in my much more interesting report: Dogster: Tumbling down the Hoogli.
I note she doesn't mention the lone Australian... in her mind I wasn't there. God, she was AWFUL. How funny to meet her again. Thanks ek.
Dec 20th, 2008, 12:33 PM
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One good turn deserves another. Here's a short piece I wrote about the author. Heh. That'll save you trying to find that old report.
*
I could see her coming from a thousand miles off, a woman of large build, draped from bosom to ankle with a muu-muu of epic proportions. She had a suitcase full of them, regularly whipped out a new nylon offering at the slightest hint of perspiratory distress.
The crew called her ‘The Tent’.
Madame Tent’s muu-muu’s were highly patterned affairs knocked up for a dollar in Cochin, one of which, when viewed from afar, gave the impression of a tie-died target zeroing in on her crotch.
‘Come on in,’ it seemed to say, ‘aim here’. Somehow, it had the opposite effect.
She was a juicy woman in her mid-Fifties, not yet gone to seed. Those loins still panted for one last man, those carnivorous thighs still ready to drag one final victim into their deadly embrace. Dogster was a little bit scared. Over lunch I told Udit he would have to sleep with her as a matter of urgency. He was the youngest, least senior member of the crew. It was his duty. The poor lad nearly fell into his curry in embarrassment.
Dogster had already offended her – just by being born. That she had to share a river vessel with this snotty Australian animal was altogether too appalling. Convicts.
She spoke to me as little as possible, tried to pretend I wasn’t there, looked at me through gimlet eyes as if I’d crapped on her shoe - so I took a certain perverse pleasure in engaging her in jaunty conversation, knowing she was much too, too polite to leave.
Her voice, when she could be bothered to reply, came from somewhere deep between her shoulder blades, a faint minge that used the least amount of air and effort, as if this manky dog in front of her was really, too, too vulgar a thing to entertain - which, of course, just spurred me on. I’d button-hole her at inappropriate moments, preventing her escape, bore her with my impressions, lavish kindness and attention on her and feign fascination at every detail of her life. She knew I didn’t mean a word of it. I knew she knew. Armed with a bottle of Dogslayer and a dangerous twinkle in my eye, I plonked myself opposite her at dinner one night. It was too juicy an opportunity to miss.
‘So-o-o my darling, what did you think about today?’ I asked. I was going to ply her with questions and kindness, test her powers of endurance to the limit. She couldn’t get away.
From somewhere deep inside her a critique of the day unravelled, a check-list of minor infringements, a catalogue of infractions.
‘I do think that when the guests are disembarking the crew should genuflect,’ she said.
‘Oh, totally...’
‘And when drinks are served in the evening the glasses should be chilled.’
‘Absolutely...’
‘And phw-w-w-aw laundry and phwa-php-wahhhh we were late, and ph-h-h-waugh bumpy rickshaw... don’t you think?
She was fading from my radar. All I could see were her breasts.
Some ineffable fatigue seemed to dog her every word, as if she’d seen it all before and found it lacking – somehow vulgar, uncivilized, raw. She was a woman for whom the tiniest moment of enthusiasm was an effort. Her face was still round and full of life; it was her mind turned acid.
Something strange had happened to her, something strange and sad. I don’t know what. Being born middle class British in the Fifties was probably a good start. The poor thing never escaped. She carried her class, her breeding, her money on her back; saw life through a curtain of London society contempt.
Her words had to burrow their way up to the surface through all this attitude – by the time they hit fresh air they were strained and strangled, sour syllables squeezed from a lime.
‘Eaugh-h-h,’ she’d sigh, ‘m-m-m-m - yah-h-hs.’
This dreadful ennui was turned on just for me. Every distant sentence was an insult, an obvious effort to even bother to reply.
Deep si-i-i-i-igh.
She finished her critique and put her head down in the hope I’d go away. Mr. Dogster was epicentre of all the loose vulgarity in the world. She grabbed at a spoon, looked at it, silently called the waiter over and showed him the offending object. A new one was brought, inspected and agreed on - all without a sound. If she could have had Dogster exchanged for a fresh one, she would have.
Mzz. Tent bent over her bowl and, with a delicate little slurp, sucked the mushroom soup from the approved spoon. Those luscious lips pursed, she looked briefly as if she had been poisoned - then, with the gentlest of motions, pushed the soup away. She attempted a gracious smile.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said sweetly, as the anxious waiter swooped, ‘take it away.’
I could tell that the affair of the mushroom soup would not be forgotten.
Her face uncurled a little.
‘And what is it that you do?’ she sighed, making it clear that she couldn’t give a damn.
‘I’m on a journey,’ I said.
‘Ee-a-augh-h-h,’ she said.
I didn’t offer any more information.
‘I’ve been tremendously impressed with your muu-muu’s,’ I began, not quite knowing where this was going to end up, ‘there’s one of them that looks just like a targe...’
That’s as far as I got.
‘Muu-muu,’ she said dreamily, with a soft killer venom in her voice. ‘Muu-muu’ – is that what you call it...’
‘Everybody has been amazed at your wardrobe,’ I lied, ‘your array of muu-muu’s is much admired. Many compliments.’
She simpered. She actually simpered. ‘Oh,’ she purred, ‘how very kind. They never say anything to me.’
If only she knew what they were really saying. Her muu-muu’s were the stuff of legend. From that moment till the end of the trip she kept appearing in her myriad tents, striking a pose, flouncing round with a new-found vigour, convinced that the passengers were secretly admiring her dazzling splendour. Her sartorial originality reached new and spectacular height as the voyage wore on, a thrice-daily fashion statement of startling vulgarity. Who would have thought that polyester could look so glorious? Many a tie had died for those muu-muu’s, she was a technicolour yawn, flapping in the breeze.
Across the dining hall Young Udit stood up from his meal. I could see him over The Tent’s shoulder. I caught his eye.
‘Udit!’ I gestured, ‘Udit! Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask my companion?’
He blushed and ran out of the room.
‘Udit! It’s your duty!’ I shouted.
*
*
I could see her coming from a thousand miles off, a woman of large build, draped from bosom to ankle with a muu-muu of epic proportions. She had a suitcase full of them, regularly whipped out a new nylon offering at the slightest hint of perspiratory distress.
The crew called her ‘The Tent’.
Madame Tent’s muu-muu’s were highly patterned affairs knocked up for a dollar in Cochin, one of which, when viewed from afar, gave the impression of a tie-died target zeroing in on her crotch.
‘Come on in,’ it seemed to say, ‘aim here’. Somehow, it had the opposite effect.
She was a juicy woman in her mid-Fifties, not yet gone to seed. Those loins still panted for one last man, those carnivorous thighs still ready to drag one final victim into their deadly embrace. Dogster was a little bit scared. Over lunch I told Udit he would have to sleep with her as a matter of urgency. He was the youngest, least senior member of the crew. It was his duty. The poor lad nearly fell into his curry in embarrassment.
Dogster had already offended her – just by being born. That she had to share a river vessel with this snotty Australian animal was altogether too appalling. Convicts.
She spoke to me as little as possible, tried to pretend I wasn’t there, looked at me through gimlet eyes as if I’d crapped on her shoe - so I took a certain perverse pleasure in engaging her in jaunty conversation, knowing she was much too, too polite to leave.
Her voice, when she could be bothered to reply, came from somewhere deep between her shoulder blades, a faint minge that used the least amount of air and effort, as if this manky dog in front of her was really, too, too vulgar a thing to entertain - which, of course, just spurred me on. I’d button-hole her at inappropriate moments, preventing her escape, bore her with my impressions, lavish kindness and attention on her and feign fascination at every detail of her life. She knew I didn’t mean a word of it. I knew she knew. Armed with a bottle of Dogslayer and a dangerous twinkle in my eye, I plonked myself opposite her at dinner one night. It was too juicy an opportunity to miss.
‘So-o-o my darling, what did you think about today?’ I asked. I was going to ply her with questions and kindness, test her powers of endurance to the limit. She couldn’t get away.
From somewhere deep inside her a critique of the day unravelled, a check-list of minor infringements, a catalogue of infractions.
‘I do think that when the guests are disembarking the crew should genuflect,’ she said.
‘Oh, totally...’
‘And when drinks are served in the evening the glasses should be chilled.’
‘Absolutely...’
‘And phw-w-w-aw laundry and phwa-php-wahhhh we were late, and ph-h-h-waugh bumpy rickshaw... don’t you think?
She was fading from my radar. All I could see were her breasts.
Some ineffable fatigue seemed to dog her every word, as if she’d seen it all before and found it lacking – somehow vulgar, uncivilized, raw. She was a woman for whom the tiniest moment of enthusiasm was an effort. Her face was still round and full of life; it was her mind turned acid.
Something strange had happened to her, something strange and sad. I don’t know what. Being born middle class British in the Fifties was probably a good start. The poor thing never escaped. She carried her class, her breeding, her money on her back; saw life through a curtain of London society contempt.
Her words had to burrow their way up to the surface through all this attitude – by the time they hit fresh air they were strained and strangled, sour syllables squeezed from a lime.
‘Eaugh-h-h,’ she’d sigh, ‘m-m-m-m - yah-h-hs.’
This dreadful ennui was turned on just for me. Every distant sentence was an insult, an obvious effort to even bother to reply.
Deep si-i-i-i-igh.
She finished her critique and put her head down in the hope I’d go away. Mr. Dogster was epicentre of all the loose vulgarity in the world. She grabbed at a spoon, looked at it, silently called the waiter over and showed him the offending object. A new one was brought, inspected and agreed on - all without a sound. If she could have had Dogster exchanged for a fresh one, she would have.
Mzz. Tent bent over her bowl and, with a delicate little slurp, sucked the mushroom soup from the approved spoon. Those luscious lips pursed, she looked briefly as if she had been poisoned - then, with the gentlest of motions, pushed the soup away. She attempted a gracious smile.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said sweetly, as the anxious waiter swooped, ‘take it away.’
I could tell that the affair of the mushroom soup would not be forgotten.
Her face uncurled a little.
‘And what is it that you do?’ she sighed, making it clear that she couldn’t give a damn.
‘I’m on a journey,’ I said.
‘Ee-a-augh-h-h,’ she said.
I didn’t offer any more information.
‘I’ve been tremendously impressed with your muu-muu’s,’ I began, not quite knowing where this was going to end up, ‘there’s one of them that looks just like a targe...’
That’s as far as I got.
‘Muu-muu,’ she said dreamily, with a soft killer venom in her voice. ‘Muu-muu’ – is that what you call it...’
‘Everybody has been amazed at your wardrobe,’ I lied, ‘your array of muu-muu’s is much admired. Many compliments.’
She simpered. She actually simpered. ‘Oh,’ she purred, ‘how very kind. They never say anything to me.’
If only she knew what they were really saying. Her muu-muu’s were the stuff of legend. From that moment till the end of the trip she kept appearing in her myriad tents, striking a pose, flouncing round with a new-found vigour, convinced that the passengers were secretly admiring her dazzling splendour. Her sartorial originality reached new and spectacular height as the voyage wore on, a thrice-daily fashion statement of startling vulgarity. Who would have thought that polyester could look so glorious? Many a tie had died for those muu-muu’s, she was a technicolour yawn, flapping in the breeze.
Across the dining hall Young Udit stood up from his meal. I could see him over The Tent’s shoulder. I caught his eye.
‘Udit!’ I gestured, ‘Udit! Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask my companion?’
He blushed and ran out of the room.
‘Udit! It’s your duty!’ I shouted.
*
Dec 20th, 2008, 01:36 PM
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Yup, that was her. I had no idea she was 'a writer...' gasp. It'd be great if she'd written about Dog, but as you see - I was cast from the picture, expelled from recollected reality. Heh. I haven't forgotten her...
I've been debating whether to use the above piece. Maybe it's too cruel. But then I thought, stuff it - and used it anyway... lol.
I'm a naughty, naughty dog.
I've been debating whether to use the above piece. Maybe it's too cruel. But then I thought, stuff it - and used it anyway... lol.
I'm a naughty, naughty dog.
Dec 20th, 2008, 01:59 PM
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We should all write, en masse, to the NYT with our collective outrage at their writer's gross omissions of relevant detail as it JUST happens that we all know someone who was on that EXACT cruise!!!
Her cover has been blown and she should be unceremoniously fired.
Long Live Dogster.
Her cover has been blown and she should be unceremoniously fired.
Long Live Dogster.
Dec 20th, 2008, 09:20 PM
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Can't help but agree with Jaya - wouldn't that be fun for her to see herself as others (well Doggie at least) see her!
Dogster - you must have a photo of her somewhere - I really think we deserve at least a pic of the muu-muu.
Dogster - you must have a photo of her somewhere - I really think we deserve at least a pic of the muu-muu.
Dec 20th, 2008, 09:38 PM
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Hi Mary, no, I don't. I don't have any pictures from that leg of my trip. My camera was drowned when I left my cabin window open. It wasn't a total crisis - I'd already been UP the Hoogli, this was coming DOWN. So I had a million pics already saved.
I had five camera-less days with these guys till Kolkata - but one of the other passengers kindly sent me some of hers. The Tent doesn't feature in any of them.
I had five camera-less days with these guys till Kolkata - but one of the other passengers kindly sent me some of hers. The Tent doesn't feature in any of them.
Dec 20th, 2008, 11:41 PM
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Probably just as well really Dogster - the camera would just as likely have self-destructed if obliged to take such an image. Its greatly to her lose that she didn't realize she was in the presence of one of Australia's national living dogs.
Dec 21st, 2008, 03:10 PM
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I think Dogster's description is mean. I don't understand what she did to earn Dogster's ire, other than being fat and wearing loud clothing.
She didn't seem to make any efforts to go after his loins.
She didn't seem to make any efforts to go after his loins.
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